


Still Alive, Still Alive

by LostCybertronian



Category: markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Cuddling, Fluff, M/M, This is for NANOWRIMO, abuse tw, i am so sorry guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 12:13:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12630849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostCybertronian/pseuds/LostCybertronian
Summary: The Host has a nightmare. He goes to Dr. Iplier for help.





	Still Alive, Still Alive

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, this is for nanowrimo. I will take inspiration and word count where I can get it.  
> Sorry guys. Enjoy?

He didn’t know what was chasing him, but it was bad. Narrations spilled from his lips as he desperately tried to navigate where he was going, but talking grew harder as he fled and there were gaps, resulting in him clipping his hip off a sharp corner, hitting his shoulder off something hard, tripping and stumbling away from whoever or whatever was pursuing him.  
He swallowed thickly, raising an arm to wipe a hand across his face, fingers coming away slick with a lukewarm substance.  
“The Host-” he gasped for breath, his lungs aching, “the Host requires assistance.”  
The menacing presence behind him grew ever closer as he began to weaken and slow down0, and the fear and panic inside him grew until it felt like his chest would burst. _“Help!”_  
“There is no help for you here.” The Host was suddenly grabbed from behind, tossed to the ground like a child’s toy. “You belong to me.”  
_“No!”_ The Host struggled as hands seized him, hit him, dragged him back into darkness he knew he would never escape.   
“You belong to me,” Dark whispered, his shell exploding into arcs of red and blue as a malicious grin spread across his face. “And you will never escape.”  
Dark’s aura shoved itself into the Host’s gaping mouth, his ears, his nose, even up underneath his bandages into his empty eye sockets.  
He didn’t have to narrate to know that Dark was inches away from his face as he whispered, “you’re mine.”  
\---  
He woke up in a cold sweat, jolting back in his chair and sucking in a deep breath of cool, refreshing air just to make sure he still could.   
His tongue felt thick in his mouth as he swallowed, tasting the coppery tang of blood, and he just sat there for a few minutes, clutching at his chest to make sure his heart was still beating, that he was still alive.  
Finally, he began to mumble narrations, assessing his surroundings. He was slumped in his desk chair, in his recording studio. The room was dark and cool and it felt good on his skin.  
With a heavy sigh, the Host heaved himself from his desk chair and left the room.   
If he had planned to go to the library, he didn’t end up there. Instead, his feet and murmured narrations led him to Dr. Iplier’s room.   
He raised his hand to knock, then hesitated, waiting for his heart to still in his chest. It didn’t.  
He knocked anyway.

\---  
The digital clock on his nightstand read 3:30 AM.  
Who on Earth is knocking? Dr. Iplier pulled himself out of bed, irritated and exhausted, and went to go answer the door.  
His annoyance at being so rudely awakened washed away when he opened the door and saw the Host standing just outside.  
The man was a mess: he was pale- paler than usual, even for him- and his hair stuck up every which way.   
Not to mention the blood. The Host was covered in blood. It soaked through his bandages and coated his cheeks. It was splattered across his forehead, in his hair, and it dripped from his chin, staining his tan coat.  
“Jesus, Host!” Dr. Iplier ushered him in, “what the hell happened to you?!”  
The Host stuttered narrations as Dr. Iplier guided him in and sat him down on the bed, then busied himself with turning on a lamp and retrieving a first aid kit from the top drawer of his dresser.   
“You’re lucky I insist on being prepared,” he said as he sank down next to the Host. “Here, let me remove your bandages.”  
He reached for the Host, but a clammy hand snatched his wrist in a grip of steel.  
Dr. Iplier reeled back in alarm, and the Host released him quickly.   
“The Host releases the good doctor and hopes that he will forgive the Host’s transgression,” he muttered, “the Host apologizes.”  
“No, no, it’s okay,” Dr. Iplier reassured him hurriedly. He paused, then added softly, “I do need to change your bandages, Host. Is it okay if I touch you?”  
The Host tilted his head, considering. Then, finally, he gave a small nod, his mouth pressed into a grim line.   
Dr. Iplier reached for the Host’s bandages again, and he could see that the blind ego was making a conscious effort to stay still, his hands set carefully in his lap. The doctor could see they were quaking.  
He wondered why that was, why the Host was in such a state in the very early morning, but he chose to focus instead on unwrapping the blood-drenched gauze.  
A hand flew to his mouth when he saw the Host’s eyes.  
For the most part, they were normal for the Host. Bloody, empty sockets. Dr. Iplier was used to that. It was the puckered black skin surrounding the Host’s right eye. Clearly, he’d been hit recently.  
“Host. What . . ? How did you . . ?” Something dawned on him all of a sudden. “Host, take off your coat.”  
The Host’s jaw clenched and he looked like he wanted to protest but he did as the doctor said, standing up and unbuttoning his coat slowly, then stripping it off, dropping it to the floor carefully, as if it was fragile.  
He then sat down again, still wearing his white shirt, which was wet with sweat.  
“The shirt too.”  
“The Host is curious as to why the doctor-”  
“The shirt, Host,” Dr. Iplier said firmly, crossing his arms. He had a funny feeling that, if the Host had eyes, he’d be receiving a fierce glare.   
He desperately hoped he was wrong in his assumption as the Host begrudgingly took off his shirt.  
But he was not wrong: the Host’s chest and back were mottled blue and purple with small, red cuts littered here and there.  
“Dr. Iplier is shocked at the sight. He has an inkling of who would hurt the Host but he is afraid to say so out loud.” The words came out of the Host’s mouth as a whisper, but to the doctor, he could’ve been shouting.  
“The Host tells Dr. Iplier that it is alright.”  
“It’s not alright!” Dr. Iplier spat, standing up, pacing a few steps forward. “He- he _hurt_ you!”  
He turned. “Is that why you came here? Was he hurting you?”  
The Host stared at him for a few moments with those empty eye sockets, more blood beginning to leak from them, then he shook his head and looked down at his lap. “The Host had a nightmare.”  
The anger drained from Dr. Iplier in an instant and he looked, actually looked, at the hurting, broken man sitting shirtless on his bed, his face covered in blood, muttering to himself under his breath.  
Dr. Iplier went back over and sat back down next to him.   
“I’m sorry, Host,” he said softly.  
“There is nothing Dr. Iplier could have done.”   
Dr. Iplier sighed and reached for the first aid kit still sitting on his nightstand. “I can replace your bandages. That much, I can do.”

Dr. Iplier cleaned the Host’s face and eye sockets with a warm washcloth and replaced the bandages. After he finished, he disappeared from the room to clean his hands.   
The Host sat quietly until he returned.  
“Do you want me to escort you back to your room?” Dr. Iplier asked as he slipped back in, shutting the door behind him. “Or would you like to stay with me?”  
The Host glanced up. “The Host would appreciate it if he could stay with Dr. Iplier.”  
Dr. Iplier smiled softly, “I’ll find you some pajamas.”  
He crossed the room to his dresser and rummaged through his drawers until he found an old T-shirt and a pair of pajama pants. “Here, put these on.”   
He tossed them toward the Host, well aware that he would catch them.   
The Host did, and struggled with the shirt for a moment before managing to pull it over his head. Then he went for his pants, and Dr. Iplier graciously turned around while he did so.  
Finally, Dr. Iplier shut the light and they sank into bed together.  
They lay in silence for a few minutes, Dr. Iplier lying on his back, the Host on his side, neither of them touching.  
“Dr. Iplier considers asking the Host if he can touch him but does not want to overstep his boundaries.” The Host took a deep breath, exhaled it slowly. “The Host does not mind the touch of the doctor.”   
Dr. Iplier smiled to himself and rolled to face the Host, slipping an arm around the ego’s waist, pulling him closer.  
The Host flinched instinctively, but he soon relaxed, and the doctor felt more than heard him sigh, felt a rough hand take his own and squeeze gently.  
They fell asleep like that, and neither of them moved for the remainder of the night.


End file.
